[194] Screed City

[194]

09/10/2022 Saturday. Garbage Room. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Farmers Market Week Fifteen:

Yeah, I mean, it's old hat at this point. Fifteen times in a row. Kind of. Minus the three weeks in Wyoming. Five more to go. Although I am going to skip the one three weeks from now. To go down to the City for the Brooklyn Book Festival. Which is good. I mean, do two more. Then take a break. At that point I will have also worked at the Brewery for an entire month. Which is whatever, but I am sure I will appreciate a break. I mean, I think I will stay down in the City until the next Wednesday. Come back. Hopefully in those last two weeks we can do a concrete pour on the New House. I can finish insulating the attic and I can Winterize Beaver Haus. By that I mean, tidy up the outside and hopefully get the Winter tires put on Junior Mint. I mean, that is a long time from now, but if I believe in myself and try really hard, all my wildest dreams can come true.

The Publisher is in Chicago this weekend. For another book festival. Apparently David S.H. has been pushing KinderRinder [Italics.] I mean, that fucked up book. I mean, there is talk about changing the cover. Something about having a picture of Himmler on the cover with his daughter and a Nazi flag turns people off for some reason. I mean, I don't even think the back cover has any explanation of what is on the inside. Meaning, the book just kind of seems like a Nazi book. When in actuality it is an anti-Nazi book. But what is it the bridesmaids say? Don't suck a gift dong in the mouth? No, don't book a gift horse without checking it's social media first? Don't judge a Nazi book by it's cover. That is it! I mean:

[Insert David Scott Hay’s Book Link]

https://whiskeytit.com/product/the-fountain/

But this morning went off without a hitch. I mean, I got up at 5a like usual. Turned the oven on by 5:30a like usual. I mean, the comedy politics thing was once agian letting me down. But this time it was my own fault for not looking for it harder. I mean, I listened to the mid-west activists. Which is always a great show. They really sock it to the media. Which is so very refreshing. And not in the usual why don't they cover this shit correctly. It is always: "Both Sides Don't." Type of thing. The Professional Left. Check it out. The Cornfield Resistance.

I mean, I was out the door by 7a exactly. It was quite foggy. The goats were assholes and harshed my mellow. I mean, I know I am always negative, but c'mon! Imagine this scene; you get up super early, everything is calm and beautiful. You go outside to find the most spell binding morning. A kind of morning where a moose just might cross your lawn. You go out to your car. Feeling really good. And then all the sudden: BLLLLLAAAGGGH! BLLLLLAAAGGGGH! BLLLLLLAAAGGGGGH! Those idiots can suck a big ol' fat fatty! I mean, I almost went into the enclosure and punched the loud fuckers in their asshole maws. Yelling: "How's this for your [PUNCH] peace! And [PUNCH] quiet!" I mean, soon enough, you sons of bitches, soon enough.

I mean, I got on the road doing a mental check. I had all my things. I took a photo as I came into Lower Granville.

[Insert Lower Granville Photo]

I mean, it was pretty all the way to Waitsfield. I really thought I might see a moose. I didn't but I drove slowly and cautiously just in case. I mean, aside from hitting a moose with my tin can on wheels, an even more tragic thing would be to slam on the breaks with three chafing dishes filled with Cubby Bubbys and steaming hot water in them. I don't know what I would do if something like that happened. I would probably just turn around and go back to bed. I mean, spilling them is one thing. But spilling them with water getting everywhere and ruining all the product? Without being able to tell which ones were ruined without taking them out of their foils? Yeah, nope. I would rather take a great big "L" at that point.

But it didn't happen. I mean, there were some deer that almost made it happen, but like I said I was going quite slow. I mean, I got to Waitsfield on time. Today the town didn't annoy me as much as it did last time. I mean, it's not like anything changed. Just my new lease on life. Or whatever. I mean, I parked and unloaded. Things seemed kind of normal. I mean, the Putin of Gluten had shaved some of his beard off and he seemed a little drunk. So I was a little worried that he had misplaced his booth again. But I think he was just in a good mood. I mean, however, the next thing I know, he is talking with the tamale lady about her bowel movements and yoga. And how she can't do yoga around other people because, I mean, she said her bowels got involved. But I took that to mean that she either shit her pants in a literal sense, or she couldn't do the yoga without shitting her pants in the figurative sense. Either way it was TMI. And I did not appreciate it at 7:30a in the morning. I mean, I don't know, I love a good brown joke, but sometimes when you are working and things are bucolic and whatever, I mean, thinking about someone shitting their pants first thing in the morning is kind of unfriendly. I mean, I parked Junior Mint and came back.

The UpSkirter got replaced by this "Artist" that made ear rings and stuff out of plastic. Which, I mean, her stuff is all right. Nothing to write home about. I mean, my mom reads this, so I guess I am writing home about it. Hi mom! But still. I am not going to send PegLeg a handwritten letter about these things. But the kicker about her, the Plastic Ringer, I mean, the Putin of Gluten engaged her in some brown talk as well. And she mentioned all the times she ruined a good pair of underwear out in the world. I mean, all of it! I couldn't take it. What was the POG doing to me? Why today did he need to talk about shitting himself and then get everyone else involved? I mean, she even told a story about how the last time someone that she knew had bought a Cubby Bubby and brought it over to her booth and mocked her with it. Saying: "Mmmm, this is SO tasty! Don't you wish you could eat it?" And she was like, "Nope, I don't want to shit myself." I mean, ugh.

I mean, the day went pretty okay. I thought for certain I was going to get hit pretty good. The crowd was not big. But in the end I sold 53 of the things. For once I didn't sell the Breakfast Bubbys out, but according to lore, this week and next week are the two worst weeks aside from the first two markets. Because these weeks are interstitial weeks. Last weekend was a holiday, and Peeper Season doesn't start until the end of September. Which makes sense. I guess. I don't know. The Putin of Gluten did great. Which makes me think it was mostly richies that came around. And, you know, Cubby Bubbys are the Peoples food. But still, I am a numbers kind of booth. If there aren't the numbers I don't do the business. And for good reason. Not everyone is hungry all the time. I guess. I mean, even the crepes booth didn't seem to have the usual long lines.

I mean, nothing else of note really happened. There were some repeat customers. Which is always nice. You know, people bringing friends to try my victuals. Which is a great compliment. This one couple, quite a bit older came by and said:

"What is it?"

I said: "It's basically a stuffed bagel." Then the woman in the couple said:

"Oh, we come from the place of actual good bagels."

And I said: "Well, fuck you too."

Just joking. She scooted off before I could give her an ear full. I mean, that was a little presumptuous to think that I couldn't make an actual bagel. Or even a good one. But still. They aren't wrong. They just missed the fucking point. And I do make a pretty good actual bagel, it's just that people, like these two pricks, are just too fucking fickle for me to be able to rely on their business. So it's not worth it to sell "Actual" bagels. I would lose money. AND! Have a million bagels floating around. Too old to sell and too fattening to eat. I mean, sure, if I wanted to feed the Valley for free. But I could do that in my free time. I got a business to run here!

I mean, when the market was done I put my things away. Felt mildly successful. Went and got the car. Loaded up. Drove to the Shaw's. Bought some supplies for next week. Ground beef and mushrooms and cheese. Some beans for next week. I mean, I have lbs and lbs of dried beans, I just don't have time to soak the fuckers. So :'(. I mean, I drove back to Lower Granville. I ate a Taco Bubby that didn't sell. It was pretty damn good. Even after sitting around all day. I got back to Beaver Haus. I mean, Professor Curly is still around. She even came to the market. When I got home she was in the hammock out back. I could see her through the kitchen window. I called her on my phone and said: "I have a surprise for you upstairs." I mean, since I got back on Thursday night we haven't had any actual time for things. I mean, the surprise was me naked on top of the covers. I mean, you can imagine the rest if you want. But I will tell you, it was pretty damn zesty! Explosive even.

I mean, afterwards we drove into Rochester. The Harvest Festival was happening. Which is something that I have wanted to see for a couple of years now. But for whatever reason it hasn't happened. The idea was to check it out, get a creemee and then we would haul ass back because I had some dumb cooking to do for next weeks farmers market. I mean, we paid to get in. The suggested donation was $2 dollars. We paid $8 dollars. I mean, I won't lie, those things are kind of sad when there isn't a huge crowd. I find it very hard to look the Boothers in the eye when passing their empty booths. Selling who the hell knows what. I mean, most of them never got the Farmers Market Memo which is: "Clarity above all." I mean, my problem, the problem with Cubby Bubbys violates this Memo. But I at least make up for it by being ready to answer questions. And even just telling people: "It's basically a stuffed bagel," circumvents this notion. I mean, to go back to the Waitsfield Farmers Market earlier. There was a point in the morning when the Plastic Rings lady and the Putin of Gluten stood in front of MY booth. Like directly in front of MY booth, talking. Just talking. Talking about the things they were selling. And, I mean, I nearly lost my shit. Because it is already hard enough to pull people in, but when other random people are making it hard to even access the weirdness of my booth, I mean, it was poor form on their part. I mean, multiple people walked by when they were doing this. They didn't even look at my booth because they were blocking the way. Blocking the display, the menu board, the sandwich board. I mean, I was a little livid. I said so much to the Putin of Gluten. I said:

"Thanks for standing in front of my booth for five minutes talking. It really helped my business." I mean, it was a little passive aggressive, but since both he and the Plastic Ringer were clueless I didn't know what to do about it. I mean, he blew my feelings off like I was being hyperbolic. I mean, I said: "Yeah, you really think it helps my business having people stand in front of my booth talking about their art?"

He said: "Whoa. Let's calm down now." I mean, I was a little startled at how upset this made me, but still, these fickle fuckers, and not only that, but he, meaning the Putin of Gluten has heard me vent about it for fifteen weeks at this point. You would think he would have an inkling or a modicum of understanding. But nobody likes to be accused of shit. I mean, it is true that there is no way of telling whether their idiotic conversation actually affected my business, but that is not for him to decide. Not in the least.

I said: "Well, I am going to do a flash mob in front of your thing, see how you like it."

He said: "What's a flash mob?" I then explained it to him. Then I went in front of his booth and did a dumb dance move. Yelling: "Nothing to see here! There are no cutting boards to buy!" I mean, I thought I was pretty funny. I mean, he did too. But still, in the end he understood where I was coming from. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, it was poor form on his part. I mean, the Plastic Ringer lives in some other wild and clueless realm, so I didn't think there was a reason to chastise her, because it would never sink in, but the Boother's Code is a sacred code. The first dictum is thus:

"Don't fuck-up your fellow Boother. Business is business."

I mean, whatever. That dude accused me of having a neurosis about the Farmers Market. And I do. I know it. He knows it. Which is why his actions are so egregious. I mean, the Plastic Ringer is just a part-time idiot. I mean, of course she acted like a clueless dick. I mean, after their five minute bull session she had the gall the chukspah as Scott pointed out to me is the proper way to spell that. [See Previous Screed. Which one, I have no idea.] I mean, to show me the thing that she had spent five minutes showing the POG. I mean, she is clueless, and such is the life. But the POG knew better. That is all I am saying. I mean, in the most passive aggressive way possible, I think I would like to publish all the Farmers Market correspondence, and I will send him a copy of the thing. Highlighting all the ways he fucked up in the copy I mail to him.

But back to the Rochester Harvest Festival. I mean, there was a picture booth. I had Professor Curly take some photos.

[Insert Rochester HF Photo]

There was a band. The band was a bunch of hippies. Playing hippy tunes. A guy playing a drum. Wearing White dude dreads. A guitar and a bass. I mean, we missed all the earlier bands. There was one from Granville called the Granville Noize or something like that. Which made me sad we missed them. A fellow Boother was there. The one that does the dog collars. Whose husband is on the radio and is the post master in Hancock. That was nice to see them. I mean, it was hot and loud and too sunny so we meandered away from the band and walked across the street and bought a creemee. They only had vanilla left. Because it had been a very busy day. We walked back to the Festival to get some shade. At which point the person that took our money in the first place told us:

"The Festival ends in twenty minutes, so I won't charge you."

Professor Curly said: "Oh, we already paid."

The gatekeeper said: "Oh, I thought you looked familiar." I mean, she had just watched us leave and then watched us get a creemee and watched us come back. But she had shaky hands and her teeth were a little roughed up. I mean, I say that only to make the point that I don't think she actually watched us leave and come back. I think that she was only kind of paying attention. But this led to a conversation.

I said: "This is pretty good, yeah?"

She said: "Yeah, it is nice you went over and bought a creemee at the gas station."

I said: "Yeah, they only have vanilla. Sold out of everything else. Even the toppings."

She said: "Yeah, they have been busy all day. A long line since this morning." Which, I mean, maybe she had watched us walk over there and get the creemee? I mean?

I said: "I like this. I did the Farmers Market here last year. Rochester is great."

She said: "Yeah, I live over there, in the green house, across from the Park House. I have lived here for 36 years at this point. I mean, I moved her with my husband and my daughter, who is living in Australia now, I mean, she is 38 now, we had two more daughters and then we got a divorce. I mean, he cheated on me and left and I raised our three daughters as a single mom. I mean, it's good that they still have the school, but it used to be there was a high school and my daughter the one that lives in Australia now, she went to the high school, but my ex-husband, he decided to cheat on me and ran off with that woman, so I raised my three daughters as a single mom, and my brother, who is around here said it was great that there is a high school here, but back in 2018 they got rid of the high school, but I work for the Rochester Harold, so I have my work cut out for me. But I raised my kids as a single mom." I mean, did I tell you she had shaky hands and roughed up teeth? I mean, this was peak Vermont-style. I mean, she kept going:

"But Rochester is great. My dad was from here, but then he met my mom who was from Connecticut and they raised us there, but then I came back here and my brother came back too, but my sister, she wouldn't come here with a ten foot pole, but at least the crime is down. Not like they have it other places." I had about a million questions and statements to make or ask, but for some reason I said:

"Well, it's Vermont, the criminals around here are just kind of weird, you know?" She did not like this statement. She had some other idea about "Criminals" that she wasn't willing to express. I mean, first of all, criminals aside, I had just written this book about Rochester. And one of the characters was this woman. Like literally. Came back to town. Because she loved the town, even though it was bad for her career. I mean, I missed a few things during her diatribe. And one of them was she ran the theater club in town. And the high school was being re-purposed as a theater. But my memory aside. She also lived across the street from the Park House. Which was something that this lady actually did. I mean, she was a person I had conjured up and here she was. In the flesh. I mean, I could have stood there talking to her for hours. I mean, me and PC were sharing a creemee. So that was kind of the sands of our time as it were. When that creemee was done it was our prerogative to keep moving. But I didn't want it to end. But the lady. Who didn't enjoy my politics with respect to crime around these parts. That, I mean, crime is committed by the locals that are just like you and me, but are maybe just in a desperate and fucked up disposition. I mean, a thing that comes up around here and around the country in general. That, for whatever reason the Libs get saddled with, politically because as much as we believe in second chances, there is a real thing about crime, but however, crime is not committed by some outside influence. It is people here. Your neighbors. The people you know. Not some outside band of mauraurdering, I don't know, Gypsys or something. I mean, you can't just throw everyone in jail that looks like they might steal your plastic flamingos from your front lawn. I mean, as a "Criminal" shit does not work the way you think it does. And out of sight, out of mind, I mean, one thing I will say about that, which is not at all the point of this part of the diatribe, is that throwing people in jail, just for being "Un-Couth" I mean, that is such a fucking waste of resources that you can politely go fuck yourself if you think that will solve a single problem. I mean, a night in jail for "Vagrants" costs something like $500 dollars. I mean, just think about that. And then what? When they do their time for the crime of being destitute costing the taxpayers thousands of dollars, you take them to the county line and say: "Straighten up and fly right?" I mean.

What I mean, is that after I made my mis-step about local politics and how crime is more local then she wanted to admit. How the sands of time, meaning our creemee, was licked to the bottom of the cone. I mean, she was done with us. And I had no chance to ask her any more questions about working for the Rochester Harold. Or how the hell she managed to become the thing I just wrote a book about. I mean, I think what really happened was we, meaning me and PC became Chucks. Flatlanders. I mean, she even mentioned Flatlanders in her diatribe. I mean, I think she really thought we were locals. At first. But then I went and spoiled the illusion. I mean, what can you do? As a pervert, who has an insatiable thirst for dirty knowledge. I mean, another thing, I mean, sorry to break away from that thought process so quickly because I don't know what else to say about it aside from, What the hell? I mean, Miss Cookies was at the band earlier. She was even playing some drum that somebody had given her. And she also was in the Roach Town [Italics] book. I mean, I think I may fast track that one. Maybe leave a copy of it on the doorstep of the woman with bad teeth and shaky hands who was a single mother who works for the Rochester Harold. I mean, in the book she is young and her name is Constance. But, I mean, the book takes place in the 90's. I mean, that is like 30 years ago. And the book is about crime in Rochester, how the community covers it up because nobody wants to admit that it is US, you and I that commit crimes. Not some roving gang of brown skinned drug addicts. I mean, if you know what I mean. I mean, I remember when I posted on Front Porch Forum about how me and PC were victims of the Flamingo Foister, how I had said something about how it was okay that they stole our flamingos and please bring them back and somebody wrote to me saying:

"Crime is crime. Please don't excuse that." And I wrote back:

"Crime is crime. I agree. But this is not the actions of a criminal mastermind. Somebody needs help."

I mean, that is where the conversation ended. And who knows? Maybe there is a criminal gang of horrible and immoral assholes committing crimes all over Vermont. But my guess is that is not true. And there is more likely a bunch of random things that happen over time for lots of different reasons and what is actually a "Crime" is basically what anyone in Society decides a "Crime" is. And yes, it sucks when someone steals your flamingos, I mean, lock your doors at night, but throw everyone in jail and hope the problem as you see it just goes away? I mean, okay, $.50 cents of every tax dollar goes to "Defense" on the Federal scale. I mean, drive to New Hampshire or New York and see what kind of money they spend on Highway Patrol cars. To pull fuckers over for speeding. Or having a burned out tail light. I mean, fuck you and your police state. It does not help me sleep at night knowing that these minor infractions are over funded and people, mostly Black and Brown people get thrown in jail because of it. At the expense of the taxpayer. Meaning, me and you. I mean, you want to have an actual conversation about this shit? I dare you. I fucking dare you! I mean, it is disgusting how much money we spend to: "Make White People Feel Safe." And yeah! That is actually the entire problem. Desperate people do desperate shit. I mean, stealing someone’s plastic flamingos is a desperate action. I hate to tell you. It is indicative of a larger problem. And that problem? Starving people in a Society where billionaires don't pay taxes. You can't sweep the poor under the rug. There are too many of us. I mean, I had no desire to go down this diatribical route, but c'mon! You want people to stop behaving desperately? Make them less desperate!

[Insert Second Rochester Photo]